U.S. At War: Mister Speaker

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Most notable piece of Rayburn generalship occurred in the summer of 1941, when Congress wrestled over extending the one-year life of the draft. For weeks it seemed certain Congress would defeat the bill. Sam Rayburn sweated day & night, persuading, cajoling, pleading with the members. Congressmen worried desperately over the political effect of the bill on mothers & fathers. But Sam Rayburn was convinced that defeat of the bill would be disastrous to the U.S. When the day for the vote arrived, Sam Rayburn was in a state of honest mental anguish; neither he nor anyone else knew for certain how the votes would go. As the clerk called the roll, Sam kept accurate count: the final tally showed the bill passed 203-202. Before any coward could switch his vote, Sam Rayburn, in a shrewd tactical move, announced the total, gaveled down all moves for reconsideration. He had won; and the U.S. Army was not disbanded four months before Pearl Harbor.

The leadership that brought Sam Rayburn through that crisis was grounded in experience: 31 years in the House (only two have served longer: Illinois's Sabath and North Carolina's Doughton) ; 25 years on the Interstate Commerce Committee (five as its chairman); and four years as majority leader before he ascended to the Speakership in 1940.

He has never been a 100% New Dealer, but he helped devise, draft and fight through many a major New Deal measure, notably Rural Electrification, the Securities Exchange Act, the Utility Holding Company Act. He has differed with New Deal strategists, but once Administration policy has been decided upon, he has, with but minor and rare exceptions, fought tooth & toenail to carry it through the House. He has been coldest to New Deal labor measures.

Man in a Dark Suit. In Washington, Sam Rayburn, 61, lives alone in a four-room apartment on Q Street, just off Connecticut Avenue, to which he invites friends to taste his own expertly prepared chili. When not dining at home, he usually goes to Martin's, an unobtrusive restaurant on Wisconsin Avenue, where he invariably occupies the booth next the kitchen door.

He dresses quietly, usually in dark suits, and seldom straps on the $375 diamond-studded cowboy belt given him by Fort Worth Publisher Amon G. Carter. His pleasures are simple. He likes to fish; he is most at home among his small circle of intimates, largely members of the Texas delegation in Congress, with whom he swaps stories of Texas history and local politics. He drinks very lightly, does not play poker, reads heavily—history and Westerns.

His job is his life. He was ten years old when he decided to become a politician; and a few years later he set his heart on the Speakership. He got what he wanted and he likes what he got. Once, after a satisfying day in the House, he said, unabashed : "I love the House of Representatives."